So move we on; I only meant
To show the reed on which you leant,
Deeming this path you might pursue
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu."
They moved; I said Fitz-James was brave
As ever knight that belted glaive,
Yet dare not say that yet his blood
Kept on its wont and tempered flood,1
As, following Roderick's stride, he drew
That seeming lonesome pathway through,
Which yet by fearful proof was rife
With lances, that, to take his life,
Waited but signal from a guide,
So late dishonored and defied.
Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round
The vanished guardians of the ground,
And still from copse and heather deep
Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep,
And in the plover's shrilly strain
The signal whistle heard again.
Nor breathed he free till far behind
The pass was left; for then they wind
Along a wide and level green,
Where neither tree nor tuft was seen,
Nor rush nor bush of broom was near,
To hide a bonnet or a spear.
The Chief in silence strode before,
And reached that torrent's sounding shore,
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
115 From Vennachar1 in silver breaks,
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
On Bochastle1 the moldering lines,
Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
Of yore her eagle wings unfurled.
120 And here his course the Chieftain stayed,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said:
"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust,
125 This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,
Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,
Far past Clan Alpine's outmost guard.
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
130 A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
See, here all vantageless3 I stand,
Armed like thyself with single brand;
For this is Coilantogle ford,
And thou must keep thee with thy sword."
1 Vennachar, a lake, and Bochastle, a place familiar to Scotchmen, showing the course of the stream.
2 The Roman army at one time overran Great Britain as far north as the scene of this tale.
› Vantageless, without advantage.
The Saxon paused: "I ne'er delayed,
When foeman bade me draw my blade;
Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death;
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved:
Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?"
"No, stranger, none!
And hear, to fire thy flagging zeal,
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;
For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred
Between the living and the dead;
'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
His party conquers in the strife.””
"Then, by my word," the Saxon said,
"The riddle is already read.
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,
There lies Red Murdoch,1 stark and stiff.
Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy;
Then yield to Fate, and not to me.
To James at Sterling 2 let us go,
When, if thou wilt be still his foe,
Or if the king shall not agree
To grant thee grace and favor free,
1 Red Murdoch, one of Roderick's clansmen.
2 James at Sterling, himself in his royal castle. Roderick
does not know that his opponent is the King.
I plight mine honor, oath, and word,
160 That, to thy native strengths restored,
With each advantage shalt thou stand
That aids thee now to guard thy land."
Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye: "Soars thy presumption, then, so high, 165 Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? He yields not, he, to man nor Fate! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate; My clansman's blood demands revenge. 170 Not yet prepared? By heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valor light As that of some vain carpet knight, Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear 175 A braid of his fair lady's hair."
"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
180 Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!
Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown.
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,1
Start at my whistle clansmen stern,
1 Cairn (kârn), a heap of stones used as a landmark.
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast,
doubt not which thou wilt
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun and stream and plain
As what they ne'er might see again;
Then foot and point and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull hide
Had death so often dashed aside;
For, trained abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
He practiced every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintained unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans 1 dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
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